


quiet in the night

by lordberenger



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordberenger/pseuds/lordberenger
Summary: The royal castle at Marlas is newly refurbished, still drafty, and dark.Or: there's a storm outside and Berenger learns new things about Ancel everyday.





	quiet in the night

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't gonna post this on ao3 but then I remembered there aren't even 20 ancel/berenger fics in the tag.

Berenger likes working in the evenings.

He liked it more before, when he was always uninterrupted and wasted nights at his desk. Or rather, it was easier before, not necessarily preferable. Now he has someone to share his time with, and it’s only too easy to let go and spend time with better company than his books.

There’s a knock on his door on the third night of their stay in Marlas, at the new Court.

Living conditions are not the best: the fort was not built to house a royal court, much less two, and the construction work and revamping the Kings have ordered two years ago are still going.

Changes are slowly appearing, though: the main part is completely done, the walls white and gleaming with new and clean stone. The eastern aisle, where most of the court lives, is liveable, if a bit sparse. Cold still seeps into the rooms, and the roof groans under pressure when the wind blows. In some parts, the domestics have had to improvise to prevent leaks. But at least no one has to sleep in tents or temporary shacks in the fields anymore.

Something bangs on the windows at the same time Ancel opens the door, without waiting for an answer. The storms has been going for an hour at least, and threatening for three days. It’s bursting open with a strength Berenger has rarely seen before.

Ancel slips into the room, silent and still a little red from his outings in the sun two days ago.

“I’m not done,” Berenger says, apologetic. “I’ll come to bed in less than an hour, I promise.”

Ancel glances at the low sofa in the corner of the room. Despite the lack of room in the castle, they’ve been attributed a two-room suite, reminiscent of their apartments in Arles, only with a singular bedroom. It has proven to come in handy when Berenger works late: Ancel is a light sleeper and very sensitive to light.

“I could sleep here,” he says, but his tone is a little more strained than usual.

Berenger sets down his quill, turning in his seat. “Are you alright?”

Thunder rolls right outside the windows and Ancel jumps a foot in the air.

_Ah_.

“The roof will hold,” Berenger says when the rumbling sound trails off. Three lighting bolts flash in quick succession. “We’re very secure.”

“I know,” Ancel snaps. “I’m not scared.”

“Uneasy, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

Berenger bites back a smile. There is something endearing in Ancel’s snappish bravery. Still, Ancel doesn’t hesitate when Berenger opens his arms wide, crawling into his lap.

“What’re you working on?” he asks, resting his head against Berenger’s shoulder. He tugs the paper on top closer to him, his eyes taking in the by-now familiar letters quickly.

“Trade accords regarding military troops’ supplies, specifically for cavalry.”

“Horses?” guesses Ancel.

“Horses.”

Rain platters against the windows. Ancel is warm and heavy in Berenger’s arms, his sleepiness impossibly alluring. Berenger can feel his eyes grow heavier with every blink, and he rests his head against Ancel. _Just a second._

“Berenger,” he hears after a minute. He grunts without opening his eyes. “You’re falling asleep on me.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he manages to say against the soft skin of Ancel’s neck.

He can imagine Ancel’s frown. “Not in a chair.”

His wriggling finishes waking up Berenger and he sighs, gathering his strength before tapping Ancel’s side. “Up.”

Ancel goes willingly, but he tugs Berenger closer when the next bout of thunder booms above them, making the windows shake.

“I hate storms,” he mutters when Berenger follows him out of the door, holding the candle he had on his desk.

“Bad memories?”

“No, they’re just scary. And rain makes my hair frizz.”

It’s said with a tug to his hair. He recently cut it just above the shoulders, which Berenger likes as much as anything and Ancel despises. He keeps mourning the loss of his long tresses and the complicated styles he liked to put them in. It’s growing back, though; Berenger is certain that by the end of the year it’ll grow back to its former length, brushing his elbows.

Ancel shrugs off the shawl he put on and throws it on the chaise, from where Berenger will most likely put it away in the morning, and comes back to help Berenger out of his laces. Veretian fashion--Artesian fashion, really-- has evolved in the last two years, but sleeves still require more laces than is really comfortable.

“So many laces,” Ancel sighs at that moment, obviously pretending very hard not to glance at Berenger. “So much lost time.”

“Mmmh,” Berenger hums, starting on his collar. “What do you suggest?”

Ancel’s hands still on Berenger’s wrist. “Seriously?”

“Laces are annoying.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to change your wardrobe for two years.” Ancel squints. “Why now?”

There’s no real reasons, only the heart-warming easiness of an epiphany born from routine and familiarity. It’s a complicated thing to formulate, even for a man as articulate as Berenger.

“I really want to go to bed,” Berenger says, shrugging off his shirt.

“You’re doing wonders to my ego,” Ancel says drily. “Were my charms not enough all this time?”

They were. That’s probably why Berenger has held onto his out-of-fashion garments for the past months; he deals with tentation more easily with self-made walls and restrictions.

“You’re more than enough,” he says seriously, cupping Ancel’s jaw with his hand. It’s the kind of moment that can bear heavy honesty, sweet and genuine.

Ancel’s skin is cold to the touch. He’s only half dressed without his shawl, his light sleep shirt falling wide around him.

“I love you,” he says, more and more freely every day, pressing his own hand to Berenger’s chest.

He must feel it when Berenger’s heart picks up. His eyes are grave: there isn’t an ounce of playful pretending when feelings are involved. It was a wonderful discovery; it still is, in a way, everyday.

“I love you too,” Berenger says.

He closes his eyes when Ancel rises to his tiptoes to drop a lingering kiss on his forehead, a light touch which has Berenger let out a breath, low and long. He slips under the covers after Ancel, welcoming the softness of the mattress under his back. .

“Hold me?” Ancel asks when Berenger has blown out the candle.

It’s not something Ancel asks often; they usually go to sleep touching lightly, maybe holding hands, but they both like the space to move and roll over during the night. The first time they’d tried falling asleep into each other’s arms, Ancel had rolled away dramatically after thirty minutes of fidgeting and dramatically declared that he was being crushed. Then they’d tried the other way, but he’d ended up kneeing Berenger in the back of the legs in his sleep.

It’s not that bad. It’s certainly better during the warm Akielon nights, even as high up north as in Delfeur. And they’re quick to meet in the middle in the morning.

Tonight is special, however.

Berenger inches his way towards the middle of the bed, bringing his arm around Ancel. It’s warm and strangely relaxing to hold a body so close to his, the adult version of holding a beloved stuffed toy.

“Wait,” Ancel says, wiggling against Berenger after two minutes. “You sleep on your back.”

“I can be on my side,” Berenger says.

“No, fall back--”

He pushes at Berenger’s shoulders until he’s laying down again, then slithers into his arms, laying his head on Berenger’s chest.

“Alright?” he asks in a low voice.

Thunder booms outside, the room quickly illuminated by lightning. Ancel reaches for the covers, throwing them over his head and up to Berenger’s chin. His face is pale in the dark and Berenger smiles, irresistibly. His arm is loosely thrown around Ancel’s waist, with plenty of room for either of them to roll off more comfortably during the night. Ancel fights off Berenger’s cold feet until they work a way to arrange their legs.

“Alright,” Berenger says after a while.

Ancel hums, the sound muffled against his chest. He’s already half-asleep; Berenger closes his eyes, not far behind.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @[lordberenger.](https://lordberenger.tumblr.com/post/174543371933/berenger-likes-working-in-the-evenings-he-liked)


End file.
